Protectors

by Kris Nelscott

  That part of the building seemed a lot more businesslike than it had just the day before, and more businesslike meant it was a little less friendly.

  And, if I were honest with myself, that plaid-shirted white man who had come in all upset earlier hadn’t helped my mood any. I empathized with him, I really did—or at least I had until he glared at me with such hatred.

  But Pammy had been polite to him. I would’ve been too, although I wouldn’t have given him nearly as much time as she had. Not with that glare. But Pammy hadn’t seemed to notice. Or maybe she had. I didn’t know for sure because I hadn’t been able to see her face.

  A few other women milled near the locker rooms, talking softly. Pammy had just come out of the back room, walking toward us with purpose.

  I made myself take a deep breath, and turn back toward the front of the mat.

  The other women in the class were standing still, legs slightly apart. All of the women were much heavier than I was, and seemed significantly older, although from their conversations, they probably weren’t. A few might’ve been in their forties, but most were in their thirties, like I was.

  They wore shorts that they probably shouldn’t have, revealing pasty white legs that had blue veins and fat bulges. No one wore a t-shirt except me. The other women wore sleeveless blouses that matched the shorts. Their arms looked like their legs, only a little less pale, some kind of summer tan.

  Pammy got to the front of the mat and grinned at everyone. She had a pretty smile that accented her blue eyes. Her hair glistened like a brownish-blonde cap. She seemed so confident.

  I envied that confidence. More than that, I wanted that confidence for myself.

  Pammy put her hands on her hips and nodded at us.

  “Welcome, everyone. Happy Monday. You’re in the basic exercise class. We will work, but I will make sure you don’t overdo, either. I want you to come back every day this week, and next week as well. I am hoping that, over time, you will enjoy this class and continue to make exercise part of your daily life.”

  Her tone was friendly, her gaze resting on each of us in turn. Finally, it landed on me. I braced myself for a big introduction.

  I hated being the center of attention. I had always hated it. I hated it more these last few months.

  Then Pammy’s gaze left mine. Pammy’s gaze had fallen on one of the women up front. I let out a small breath, not quite a sigh of relief, but close. Maybe she wouldn’t introduce me after all.

  I would be happy with that.

  Pammy said, “Some of what we’re going to do will seem simple to you, and some of it will be unbelievably hard. Some of you will do well on one thing, and will have trouble with the next.”

  I hated having trouble with things. I used to be the best student in any class I walked into. My mother used to say that it was essential for a Negro girl to be better than everyone else just to be considered good.

  Whether I liked it or not, she had been right—and I felt that pressure here. Just the word “class” made the old perfectionism rise up.

  A slight frown creased Pammy’s brow. For a half-second, I thought she had noticed how tense I had become. Then I realized she was looking at a woman to my left. That woman’s pale skin seemed even paler than it had a moment ago.

  She was the other short woman in the class. She had auburn hair cut into an unattractive bowl that circled her face. Her skin was mottled, that red and pale coloring that some white women got when emotions swirled inside them.

  Pammy’s gaze on that woman made it seem almost as if she were talking directly to the woman.

  “Don’t worry about how hard some of these exercises will seem.” Pammy’s voice remained calm. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

  I jolted. She might’ve been looking at that other woman, but that sentence went straight into my core.

  Pammy still wasn’t looking at me, though. She was saying, “You just have to try. You’ll be amazed at what you can do when you try. You’ll gain strength as time goes on.”

  I was missing something here, something Pammy knew.

  Then I glanced at the woman’s feet. She wore brand-new white sneakers. They didn’t have a single scuff mark, like mine.

  She was new, just like I was.

  I felt a small degree of tension leave my shoulders. I was happy to have company.

  “We’re going to start with something that seems easy, but isn’t always,” Pammy said. “Please. Sit down. And I want you to sit cross-legged.”

  A tall woman in front of me shifted slightly. She had a bouffant hairdo that was a silver-blonde that did not occur in nature. The hair didn’t move either, no matter what the woman did. The style had to have cost her a pretty penny. I couldn’t believe she would jeopardize it here.

  She crossed her legs at the ankles and sank to the mat, ending up in a cross-legged position. Pammy watched, mouth tight as she tried to control a smile.

  I clenched my hands into fists, then realized what I was doing. I couldn’t sit easily if I did that.

  But I had never seen anyone sit down like that woman had—not men, not little children. It looked easy, hardly any wasted movement.

  The other new woman looked at me, green eyes wide with panic. Normally, if a white woman looked at me like that, I would think she wasn’t used to being around people of color. But there seemed to be an element of camaraderie in her look, almost a pleading alarm: Can you do this? I’m not sure I can.

  I smiled at her and shrugged a little. Then I tried the standing ankle-cross thing just because I always had to emulate the best in the class (on my way to being the best in the class). I eased down, and nearly fell over sideways. I caught myself, and my cheeks heated. Moving like that was a lot harder than it looked.

  I finally gave up and sat down like the other women had. Then I shifted my legs so that I could sit cross-legged, something I hadn’t even tried in years.

  Turned out I could do it, but it hurt, tugging at my upper thighs.

  The other new woman sat down heavily. She managed to cross her legs too. Four of the women sat down, then tried to cross their legs. Two grabbed their ankles and pulled, finally succeeding. The other two women were unable to cross their legs at all.

  Pammy watched us all as if sitting cross-legged were a matter of life and death. I realized, looking at the others, that in some ways it was.

  It told Pammy whether or not we were limber, and all of us except the bouffant woman were not.

  Pammy did not comment on our awkwardness. Instead, she clasped her hands together, almost as if she were moved to applaud, and then decided against it.

  “Good job,” she said. “Movement is essential to life, but most of us don’t do much of it anymore. So don’t feel badly if something that seems simple turns out to be hard.”

  The auburn-haired woman snorted beside me. I smiled at her. She smiled back and shrugged.

  Pammy said, “I’m going to take you through a series of exercises. I’m not going to allow you to do them the way that your gym teacher used to, if you even had a gym teacher.”

  One of the dark-haired women nodded. I couldn’t tell if that meant she had had a gym teacher or she hadn’t had one.

  “If your gym teacher was anything like mine, she made sure you did everything the girls’ way. Simpler, easier, not taxing on female bodies. Well,” Pammy said with a bit of energy in her tone for the first time, “I don’t believe that there are girls’ exercises and boys’ exercises. There are only effective exercises and ineffective exercises.”

  “What about our breasts?” the bouffant woman asked. I could only see her from the back, but I assumed hers were worth asking about. Mine certainly weren’t.

  “For some of you, on some exercises, your breasts might get in the way,” Pammy said. “Do your best. If your breasts turn out to be a serious hindrance, we’ll wrap them. We have found that wrapping breasts makes a big difference. Talk to me after class if you’re interested.”

  The auburn-
haired woman looked at me, eyebrows raised. Her breasts were bigger than mine but they certainly weren’t in trouble territory.

  I indicated mine, and shrugged. She grinned, and mimicked my gesture, then shrugged too. I grinned back.

  A friend. Or at least, someone friendly.

  I hadn’t realized how much I had craved it.

  Yesterday, today, all that socializing. I was a bit shocked at myself. I hadn’t realized that I had been lonely.

  “We’re going to start with sit-ups,” Pammy said. “You’ll need a partner to do this.”

  I looked at the auburn-haired woman. She nodded.

  “Pick a spot,” Pammy said. “Then decide who will go first. The person doing the sit-ups will lie on her back with her spine touching the mat. Make sure your lower back makes contact with the mat. That’s where most people make their mistakes.”

  The auburn-haired woman looked like she was having trouble getting out of her cross-legged stance. So I scooched over toward her. She shook her head just a little.

  “This is harder than I thought,” she whispered, “and all we’ve done is sit.”

  “I know,” I said softly.

  The others were partnering up as well, whispering as they did so. No one was really paying attention to Pammy. She was trying to say something about the other partner. She finally shook her head and waited, watching us partner up.

  It only took a moment, because we all moved quickly. Except the bouffant woman. She remained in her cross-legged position like a tin-pot Buddha. The only remaining woman—the heaviest in the group—looked at the bouffant woman, and then at the rest of us, as if she longed to have any other partner instead of the bouffant woman.

  Somehow it didn’t surprise me that the bouffant woman remained partnerless. I hadn’t wanted to partner with her either.

  “I’m Val, by the way,” I said to the auburn-haired woman, extending my hand.

  “Joan,” she said. “This is your first class too, right?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said.

  “My husband didn’t want me to come,” she said. “He said I couldn’t do this. No girl could.”

  I raised my eyebrows. When I heard things like that, I was grateful for Truman. Even though we had our differences, even though I had married him for all the wrong reasons, he had always treated me with respect.

  I touched my Chicago PD t-shirt, in silent homage to him.

  “I’m going to prove to him that I can do all of it,” the auburn-haired woman said. Then she rubbed her upper thighs. “Maybe just not today.”

  I chuckled appreciatively.

  “All right,” Pammy said loudly. “It looks like everyone’s in place.”

  Joan and I both looked in her direction. The heavyset woman and the bouffant woman sat side by side. Mutt and Jeff. I hoped it would work out for them.

  “One of you lie back, as I said,” Pammy continued. “The other must hold her ankles in place. Your legs should be bent, your heels about a foot from your tailbone. Your arms should be flat on the ground beside you. When it comes time to do the actual sit-up, cross your arms over your chest. Do not put them behind your head.”

  “Like they taught us to do in gym class,” Joan said.

  Apparently, she had said it loud enough for Pammy to hear. “Exactly,” Pammy said.

  I didn’t remember doing sit-ups in gym class. When Truman did them, he kept his legs outstretched, and leaned forward so that he could touch his toes. He had been such a big man that he had had trouble with that.

  Pammy said, “The other woman will hold her partner’s ankles. Your job is to make sure your partner’s feet do not leave the ground for any reason. The person doing the exercise will sit up slowly, keeping her head in alignment with her spine. Once you’re in a sitting position, count to two before lying back down.”

  “Sounds complex,” Joan whispered to me. “Who knew that sit-ups were complex?”

  I was beginning to think everything physical was complex.

  “Do no more than ten sit-ups,” Pammy said, “and wait for me before switching positions. Do not do these fast. You’ll get hurt if you do.”

  “I might get hurt no matter what,” Joan whispered.

  I grinned. I had been thinking the same thing.

  The mottling on Joan’s skin had grown worse. She was actually panicked about this.

  I found it oddly reassuring that someone else was more uncomfortable with a procedure than I was.

  “I’ll go first if you want,” I said.

  “Would you?” she asked. “Because it sounds so complicated.”

  It did sound complicated, which confused me. I remembered doing sit-ups as a child, and they seemed straightforward. Of course, I had learned to do them the way that Truman had done them.

  I scooted down on the mat so that my head wouldn’t hang off the edge. Then I put my hands flat at my sides. I had to concentrate to press the small of my back against the mat. That felt weird, almost like I was holding it in place.

  Joan looked at my feet as if she were visually measuring the distance between my heels and my bottom.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  She wrapped her hands around my ankles. I jerked a little. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched me at my request. It felt odd.

  Her fingers held tightly. Her skin was warm through my socks.

  I made myself think of something else.

  “You have to cross your arms,” she said.

  “Oh, right.” I did, crossing my arms in front of my chest. Then I tried to sit up. I leaned to the right. The scars on my abdomen ached. If I still had stitches, I might have pulled them out.

  Tears filled my eyes, and I blinked them back. I bit my lower lip. I would do this. I would do it right.

  Somehow I managed to sit all the way up, but I felt the movement in my stomach and my back.

  “One…two!” Joan said, then looked at me.

  She immediately frowned.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, and eased back down. I wasn’t going to tell her about the surgeries or the attack or the butchery both doctors had done on me.

  I was still blinking as my back hit the mat.

  “You going to go for a second one?” Joan asked.

  “Yes,” I said, and was surprised at the determination in my voice. Yes, I was going to do this. Yes, I was going to heal my stomach. Yes, I was going to conquer all of this.

  I was going to do everything it took to make myself strong.

  I sat up, and it was easier this time, although the aches hadn’t gone away.

  “One…two!” Joan looked at me and grinned. I grinned back, and hoped that it wasn’t a grimace.

  I laid back down. My body cried for rest, even though I had only done two sit-ups.

  But I wasn’t going to let it rest. I could do this.

  I would do this.

  I wobbled my way up.

  “One…two!” Joan said, looking pleased. “You’re good at this.”

  I wasn’t good at it. But I made a promise to myself then and there.

  I wasn’t good at anything physical, but I would be.

  I would be better at exercise than bouffant woman.

  Better than Pammy.

  I would be the best, no matter what it took.

  No matter what the cost.

  11

  Eagle

  Three donuts later, Eagle folded the pastry box closed. Three donuts and two cups of coffee. Enough caffeine and sugar to keep her going for a while.

  She leaned against the counter in the small kitchen, and glanced at the tiny alarm clock Pammy had placed on top of the stove. Most of Pammy’s classes lasted an hour. She’d left the kitchen forty-five minutes ago.

  So, fifteen minutes left in the class. Then, afterwards, the class would need time to talk, pat each other on the back, and then vanish into the street or the locker room.

  Eagle sighed
. And, as that class was leaving, members of another class would start trickling in.

  Just like Pammy had reminded her, Mondays would be filled with students and talkers and June Cleavers. If Eagle wanted privacy, she’d have to come back at night.

  And she didn’t want to come back at night.

  But she didn’t want to talk to anyone either.

  As if on cue, the kitchen door swung open. Jill Woodbridge sauntered in, carrying two bags of groceries. Her gaze met Eagle’s and they assessed each other coldly, just like they usually did.

  Eagle knew that Pammy relied on Jill, and Jill knew that Eagle provided needed medical services here. But they didn’t like each other. Jill had a stick wedged firmly up her ass. She thought everything should be just so, and the definition of “just so” was her definition, and no one else’s.

  Jill had been arguing for months that Eagle needed an official role. She either needed to be on a payroll or to be paid as a contractor or to sign off as some kind of volunteer. Jill thought she knew everything about anything business, and she was afraid that Pammy’s insurance wouldn’t cover some problem that Eagle caused.

  Jill was right to be afraid that Pammy’s insurance wouldn’t cover something that was Eagle’s fault, but not because Eagle wasn’t on the payroll. It would be because the asshole insurance agent that Pammy had been assigned had given them a slap-dash policy and had told Pammy that was the best she could get.

  Eagle wanted Pammy to shop around, but Pammy said she didn’t have time. Eagle thought Pammy was screwing up. If something happened at the gym, then Pammy would be on the hook for it.

  Of course, some other insurance company—no matter how good—might leave Pammy on the hook for it anyway. Most would think she was running an illegitimate business. Women shouldn’t fight. Women shouldn’t enlist either. Women shouldn’t go to war, and women certainly shouldn’t own businesses, unless they were cooking or sewing related.

  Even in the People’s Republic of Berkeley.

  That attitude was why Eagle was volunteering in the first place. The black eyes and sprained thumbs around here would add up. The hospitals would report Pammy, and then she would lose everything.